


teach me, make me holy

by FreshBrains



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Community: femslash_today, F/F, Fireworks 16 Porn Battle, Ghosts, POV Constance, Spirits, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Constance is a woman with her head firmly on her shoulders, so she’s certainly not seeing the ghoulies and ghosties Billie Dean sees—she’s not feeling them, sensing their presence. But she’s not fool enough to think Billie Dean isn’t being affected by <i>something</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	teach me, make me holy

**Author's Note:**

> For the Femslash_Today Fireworks 16 Porn Battle prompt: [Billie Dean/Nora, haunted](http://femslash-today.livejournal.com/627144.html).

Constance leans with her hip against the kitchen table, cigarette unlit between two fingers. She’s watching Billie Dean—Billie Dean, her batty old friend who can see things no one else in their right mind can see, her friend who admittedly has done some wild things in this here old house. But this right here—this is the wildest by far.

“Do you need a glass of water, dear? Or a towel to sit on?” Constance arches an eyebrow, trying not to smile at her friend’s plight.

“Unnecessary,” Billie Dean croaks out in that quaint little accent of hers, hand white-knuckled against the Formica. She’s squirming in her seat like she has ants in her pants, her face flushed, the roots of her bottle-blonde hair darkened with sweat. “She’s just trying to get a rise out of me is all.”

Constance is a woman with her head firmly on her shoulders, so she’s certainly not seeing the ghoulies and ghosties Billie Dean sees—she’s not feeling them, sensing their presence. But she’s not fool enough to think Billie Dean isn’t being affected by _something_. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s beautiful,” Billie Dean grits, face going a little red. She lifts her left hand a little and curves her fingers towards her own shoulder, like she’s trying to beckon someone back who was standing behind her. “Young. Blonde curls, bow-shaped lips…”

“Goodness, I’ve read Harlequins more eloquent than this,” Constance says, rolling her eyes. She sits down at the table across from Billie Dean, dragging the ashtray closer to her. But she can’t quite seem to _not_ be drawn into Bille Dean’s voodoo.

“I can’t explain her in any other way. She’s…classic. Plain, but so _lovely._ ” She closes her eyes for a moment, lips pursed.

For a second, Constance can actually _see_ a lock of Billie Dean’s hair flutter across her cheek, like someone is a blowing a kiss at her, or leaning close enough into her space for her breath to loosen the tightest parts of Billie Dean right up. There’s an undeniable presence in the room—the antique scent of lily perfume, the faintest sound of a strand of pearls clacking together.

Billie Dean leans back in her chair, hips arched, legs only slightly spread. “She’s lonely,” she whispers, eyes opening slowly. Her hands clench and unclench on her thighs. “She’s been so…untouched. For too long.”

Constance can only stare. Her cigarette ash falls to the table; she curses and sweeps it into the ashtray. _So touch her, you idiot_ , she wants to say, but buttons her lips.

Billie Dean just sits stone-still, her breathing getting shorter and shorter. Her hips wriggle again, setting into a little grind against the chair, and right when Constance feels her own body stir in sympathy, Billie Dean gasps, eyes opened wide, pupils blown.

“Nora,” she says, voice husky and reverent, a voice usually reserved for a woman well-fucked. “Her name is Nora Montgomery.”

Constance thinks there may have been easier ways to find that out, but surely none of them would be quite as fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from CHVRCHES' "Lies"


End file.
